The Throne of Games
by TheLayer0p
Summary: There is unrest in Achievement city.


Atop the Golden Throne

King Ramsay stood atop the obelisk that was his home, gazing out at the snow covered fields of achievement city, the moon and stars giving the valleys a luster of midday. The stars above his head twinkled dimly through the clouds, and the massive Altar of Pimps was visible in the distance. A magnificent green cloak hung on his shoulders to protect him from the wind, and a golden band decorated with emeralds and pearls rested on his head.

"Couldn't sleep, my lord?" Michael the Righteous said in the darkness, his bear-head helm under his arm and blue-tinged steel at his hip. His brown fur cloak rustled gently as he walked, and the blue bag dangled form his back. His tangle of brown hair had tiny flecks of snow in it, and the markings of his tribe showed at the base of his neck.

"A kingdom never sleeps," Ramsey mused sleepily, "Why should its King?" He yawned loudly as the cold sent a shiver through his body.

"No King can stay awake forever," Michael replied, "No matter how great."

"I know this all too well," the King said sadly and the wind picked up and a pack of wolves howled in the forest beyond the city. "The wolves are growing restless and bold, Sir Michael. Their numbers are greater than they have been in many years. And yet they are the least of our problems now."

"Problems, my lord?" Michael inquired, stepping forward.

"The creepers in the forests," the King began, "the spiders as well, the dead walk the earth, and things that are not of this world are sighted more by the day. The people of the kingdom are poor and hungry, and this colds bites at their bones. My spies speak of whispers of revolution, and there is no power of mine to stop it. I fear I shall not remain King of this realm for much longer."

"Perhaps it is the cold and the time that is affecting you so," Michael suggested quietly.

"Perhaps," the King agreed, taking one last sweeping look at his kingdom before turning and leaving the tower walkway. "Walk with me, Sir Michael."

The two of them walked in silence down the tower staircase until they reached the castle proper. The austere walls were lit only by the occasional torch, flickering lazily in its bracket. The cold stone echoed softly with their footsteps, the King in his fine leather shoes, Michael in his heavy travelling boots.

"Remind me the name you had when I first found you, Sir Michael," the King said after a few moments.

"Mogar, my liege," Michael replied, "It means bear in my native tongue."

King Ramsey often forgot that Sir Michael was not of his kin, his accent so faint and his mannerisms so familiar. Sir Michael in truth hailed from an eastern land, one long since conquered by King Geoff Ramsey and his knights. When the conquest had ended, the King happened upon a young warrior who refused to quit fighting. He subdued the warrior, who wore only a bear pelt and fought with his hands. When he saw the tenacity in the young warriors face, he had at last believed he had found an heir, though he never shared this information with Sir Michael. The Queen was a beautiful woman, though she had never given the King a son.

"How did you come by that name?" the King continued his questions.

"It was bestowed upon me by my elders," Michael explained, "When I had proven I was a man, they gave me a man's name. That was the way of my people."

"Is it not still the way of your people?" the King said, peering at his loyal knight.

"My people are dead, my lord."

"Not all of them. And you, of all people, should know that not all that is gone is dead, and not all that is dead is gone. A man shall not truly die until his name ceases to be spoken, and names are not always easy to forget. I wish you good night, Sir Michael."

"As you wish, my King," Michael bowed stiffly before leaving.

The King continued his path through the castle, the bare walls an indistinguishable maze that he knew by heart. He first reached his daughter's bedroom, opened the door quietly, and crept through the shadows up to the bed. He laid his hand on his beautiful daughter's head and gently kissed her forehead before retreating back into the hallway. From there he found his way to his own bed, next to his queen. He lied under the blankets, staring at the black ceiling, for what felt like hours, the gentle noise of his Queen's breathing soothing to his ears.

When he finally drifted off to sleep, his dreams were a disturbed hodgepodge of images and sounds. He saw his five most loyal knights, their armors glinting in the sun. He laughed and called their names, but they did not turn to him, nor did they bow. Sir Jack, his oldest and most trusted companion, turned to the sound of his King's voice, but he made no move to join him. Sir Michael stood stoic and silent, not giving any sign that he had even heard the King. Sir Gavin, in his silver mail armor shrouded in a green patchwork tunic, laughed with the King, though there was no joy in his voice. Sir Ray, in stark black armor, a single, gigantic rose emblazoned on his cloak, heard his name called and began to walk away, never once looking at the King. Sir Ryan, The only one facing the King, smiled when his name was said, and eagerly stepped forward. In one hand, he held a rusted sword, and in the other he held a crown.

The crown was at once familiar and foreign to King Ramsey's eyes. The shape and form of it were the same as the one that rested atop his own head, but it was inlaid with rubies and black onyx stones, and it glinted with a fiery light, a light that struck fear deep into the King's core. Sir Ryan walked toward the King, his stride steady and purposeful, his eyes never once breaking the King's gaze. He stopped less than a pace away from King Ramsey, his eyes hungry and fierce. He spoke, but it was as if he were underwater, and the King could not understand him. Sir Ryan slowly raised his sword, angling it above his head.

The King was desperate to run, to hide, to get away from his assailant, but his legs were frozen, and his mouth refused to do his bidding. Perhaps Sir Ryan sensed the fear, or perhaps he was just gleeful in the situation, but he smiled. He smiled a cold, mirthless smile, a smile that his eyes did not agree with. He bared his teeth for several moments before he spoke, and this time the King understood him perfectly.

"All hail the Mad King."

Sir Ryan brought the sword down quickly, striking at the King's neck. King Ramsey woke with a start and a yell, sitting bolt upright in his bed and rousing his Queen. He reached at his hip for a sword that was not there, and frantically wiped sweat from his brow. Lady Griffon laid a hand on his shoulder, and he tensed at the touch, but soon relaxed and spoke.

"I am sorry, my lady," King Ramsey said heavily, "My dreams are troubling me again."

"Please Geoff," the Queen said, "Tell me what ails you! I hate to see you in this condition day after day, and yet you tell me nothing more than it will pass!"

"I fear, my lady," the King looked upon his wife with dark and heavy eyes, "It is no longer a 'what' that ails me; it has become a 'who'."


End file.
